


/—disconnected—/

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Case Fic, Communication Suddenly Cut Off, Gen, Manipulation, Missing Persons, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Missing? It’d only been a few days since Gil had seen his kid. Nothing out of the ordinary. The team goes on a quest to find Malcolm.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Communication Suddenly Cut Off.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 109
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	/—disconnected—/

Malcolm comes to visit, and then Dr. Whitly counts. Day 1 — 2 — 3 — 4 —

Day 5. No Malcolm.

They have an agreement. Malcolm arrives, he doesn’t call the police on his mother. His phone is such a convenient device. If he presses the right buttons, he can even call the police on his boy.

Day 6. Nothing.

His boy is rather forgetful. He gets that from his mother. He gives him a phone call — rings, rings, rings. Gives him 21 more to add up to every year he’s spent in a cage courtesy of him.

Day 7. “Malcolm, _my boy!_ “

Every voicemail he leaves starts with the salutation. Ends with a not-so-subtle reminder that he _will_ call the police, so “Call me.”

Day 8. Greeting.

He’d listen to it over and over again to feel closer to Malcolm. Eight days is an awfully long time not to hear from him. It starts feeling like the ten years he’d abandoned him.

Day 9. “ _You will answer this damn_ — “

Phone. Mr. David puts it away for the day citing agitation.

Day 10. He calls the police.

“I need to report my son missing.” They ask for a basic description he’s more than happy to provide. “Small boy. Goes by the name Malcolm Whitly.”

* * *

Gil gets called at home before he has a chance to change out of his pajamas. _Dispatch_. “Lieutenant, we have a report that Malcolm Whitly is missing,” they relay in a formulaic manner.

“Bright, his name is Bright,” he snarks, accustomed to standing up for his kid.

“I know, sir. That’s the name the caller used,” they say back patiently.

Gil pauses fixing coffee in his kitchen. Missing? It’d only been a few days since he’d seen his kid. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Whenever anything comes in about Consultant Bright, you’re the first person I check with,” they pull his attention back. One of the only groups in the precinct who knows his former identity due to the number of times they’ve been called by Martin. Gil has the calls routed to him now to reduce the number of direct lines to his kid.

“Who reported it?”

“A Sturgeon?” They say, unsure as they read off the paper.

 _Great_ , a day starting with Dr. Whitly. Shenanigans, likely.

Gil calls Malcolm. When it flips over to voicemail, he’s ready to leave a gruff _Bright, call me_.

Mailbox is full.

He grabs his keys and leaves his apartment, still in his pajamas.

* * *

Gil buzzes, yet gets no response. Uses his key to unlock the outside door and hops the stairs two by two to knock at the inside one. Gives one last warning holler of “ _Bright!_ “ And enters his loft.

No Malcolm.

Sunshine flips and flutters in her cage at him — tail over head, tail over head. Her water dish is low, pieces of food tossed in. “ _Bright!_ “

Nothing.

Not in the living room, not on the bed, not cowering between the bed and the window, not in the bathroom, not even shoved into the back of any of the downstairs closets.

“City boy!”

He runs up the stairs, checks in the office, the bathroom, the guest bedroom. Makes another call when Malcolm is nowhere in sight.

Greeting.

He calls a couple more times and doesn’t hear the phone anywhere in the loft. Calls Jessica and gets a little too preoccupied double-checking all the places he already searched, even opening the cabinets in case they were his next foray into hiding.

“ _You will answer this damn_ — “

“Jessica, have you heard from Malcolm?”

“ _Gil,_ " her voice brightens. "No — he’s been busy working.”

How the _fuck_ was Martin Whitly the first to know Malcolm disappeared?

He calls the police.

“The kid is missing.”

* * *

Gil takes the lead, JT respecting his need to do _something_ and not taking it as a hit that he and Dani aren’t capable of doing their jobs. They trace his phone to a bar on eighth where it’d been left behind what the bartender says was “Eh, a few days ago.” A few days who knows what could have happened to him.

It’s late afternoon, and the bar’s pretty quiet, glasses clinking as the bartender mixes drinks while they talk. The calm before the rush of happy hour, after dinner, and drinking until dawn.

The bartender adds, “Jim’s a frequent patron,” and at Gil’s look of confusion, continues, “the guy your guy was talking to. A couple times I’d say.”

“Like a date?” Gil asks.

The man chuckles. “No. Your guy’s too studious. Had a folder he’d lay out on my bar. Had to tell him to pack it in a few times. Takes away space from my other patrons.”

 _Fuck, Bright — not enough action so you had to find your own case?_ “Do you know Jim’s last name?”

The bartender points to a collage of photos on the far wall. “He’s one of our king pizza finishers. You’ll find it over there.” Gil looks at him like that’s one _huge_ collection of photos to go through. “Next to the I, so he could always keep a lookout for the next competitor.” The man sing-songs his head like he’d heard the line a hundred times.

“I’ve got it, Gil,” JT calls, holding up the photo.

They thank the bartender for his help and see their way out. Gil palms Malcolm’s phone in his pocket, the closest connection he has to him at the moment.

* * *

JT relays Jim Wembly’s name and photo to Dani so she can get started researching on their way back to the precinct. She’s waiting for them when they get in, clacking on keys she’s relocated to the conference room.

"Several Jim Wembly’s in New York. Started on Facebook, but a lot of the profiles are locked down,” she says, not looking up from her screen.

“Twitter or Insta would be a better bet,” JT suggests.

“Bring your stuff in — the strikethroughs are the locked down profiles,” she points at her pad of paper beside her.

“Can’t do anything with those, but maybe find account names on the open ones,” JT notes and leaves for his desk.

Gil looks between them, seeing _of course_ they have everything covered. “I’ll go talk to Dr. Whitly,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“Do you want — “ Dani starts, but he cuts her off.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ll be back.”

* * *

Worn shoes, polyester pants, cheap coat — he’s the wrong visitor to his cell. “You really suck at the first rule of parenting — don’t lose the kid,” Martin scowls.

“Believe me, _no one_ would give a serial killer father of the year,” Gil fires back a steady warning shot.

“Yet _I’m_ the one who knew something was wrong. Tsk tsk, Lieutenant. Or shall we just say _Arroyo_ ,” he rolls his name highlighting the vile existence that he is.

“When’s the last you heard from him?”

Martin paces his cell, drawing arithmetic in the air. “A fortnight plus one, take away three, sub two more for the two times too many you’ve scarred me with your presence,” Martin ends on a seethe, baring his teeth and quickly hiding them again.

“The more direct your response, the faster we find him.”

Martin stops and stares at Gil. “I really _don’t_ trust that. You’re missing the _profiler_ — the one who boosts _all_ your arrest counts.”

“We do just fine — “

“Do something _fucking_ useful for _once_!” he snaps, his hands rocking at his sides. Mr. David looks over at him from the door, the only warning he needs to cut it out, or he’ll be on his way to another time out. One without any windows or red lines to warn nonexistent visitors.

“Was he testing any theories with you? Trying to solve anything?” Gil reaches for things that may give an indication of what Malcolm was up to.

“Like why his weak psyche keeps running back to you?” The dammed poor influence.

Gil ignores the jab. “When did your calls start going directly to voicemail?”

“Yesterday?” His hand grasps his already wild hair. “No — the day before.”

“How did you know something was wrong?”

“He’s — _my_ — _boy_ ,” he emphasizes, glaring at Gil.

Gil taps on the door to signal Mr. David, more than ready to be let out.

* * *

“I think this looks kinda like him,” Dani points at a Facebook profile. The profile is private, but they can still see the profile picture.

JT looks at the friendly short link for the account and takes a gamble searching for it on Twitter. A reel of pictures come up in the results. “That’s the bar,” JT recognizes the shots of pool and specials.

He keeps scrolling down, seeing what else occupied his recent tweets. JT’s eyes catch on an all caps message: _MY FRIEND ETHAN HAS BEEN MISSING SINCE ’96. WALKED HOME FROM STUYVESANT AND NEVER SEEN AGAIN. ANY INFORMATION THAT MIGHT HELP FIND HIM, PLEASE DM._ There’s a photo underneath of a blonde teenager beaming for the camera, a soccer ball in his hand.

“I think I’ve got why Bright went,” JT says as Dani looks over at his screen.

“You put in the request to get the messages, I’ll find his address,” Dani divvies.

“Bets on Bright’s Twitter handle?” JT poses, already pulling up the form to complete.

“Masterofdisaster.”

“Manicatthedisco.”

Dani scowls at his word choice. “It’s gonna be some studious shit.”

“We can all laugh about it when we find his ass.”

* * *

“Anything?” JT asks when Gil returns to the conference room.

“Based on battery life, he’s been missing two to three days. Beyond that — ” He shrugs. “ — an earful.”

“Found the real Jim Wembly in Chelsea. Long time New Yorker — went to Stuyvesant High School, worked on and off at advertisement firms for a while, currently unemployed,” Dani lists, still working on compiling more details in front of her.

“He had a friend, Ethan Thatcher, who went missing in ’96. Posted a message asking for help finding him,” JT details. “We’re waiting on the records request to see if Bright contacted Wembly.”

“One of The Surgeon’s victims went to Stuyvesant,” Gil shares, his hands creeping up to his hips. The link has him fidgeting, his brow sharing how much he doesn’t like the direction the conversation is going.

“Ethan?”

“Another kid.” Gil shakes his head, remembering the kid’s photo.

“Any idea why Bright would go see Wembly in person?” JT asks.

“Why does Bright talk to anyone?” Gil clasps his temple in frustration. “Information.”

Gil walks away, slamming his office door behind him. “ _Dammit, Bright!_ “ shakes the precinct. His hopes that this is a simple misunderstanding are falling away the more they find. This can’t be like Watkins again, it _can’t_.

Gil closes and uncloses his fists, pledging that when they find him alive, he’s going to wring the kid’s neck, then embed a damn tracking device under his skin.

* * *

They pile into a department SUV and JT drives them to Wembly’s. Several knocks at his apartment, and they get nothing. They shuffle back into the vehicle and JT drives on instinct.

Reentering the bar, JT spots what looks like Wembly at the far end in a grey t-shirt and sweatpants. “Jim?” JT asks, and he turns to them. “Hi, we’re with the NYPD. We would like to ask you some questions about your missing friend.”

“Ethan? You have information?” He perks up, abandoning his beer.

“Could we talk outside?” JT gestures at the door.

“Don’t want to lose my spot,” he refuses, gazing across the three of them.

“Why did you put up a post?” Gil asks when JT seems reluctant to proceed in the setting.

“Ethan was my friend. My _best_ friend. Disappeared back in ’96. I look every year. Never been able to find him.” He finds his glass behind him and takes a hearty swig. “People are raising all kinds of money on social media, so I figured why not try.”

“Did anyone respond to your request?” JT continues now that he knows Gil is supportive.

“Bunch of crazies spamming.” He shakes his head. “And then there was Mr. Bright.”

“Mr. Bright?”

“A detective or something. Mile-a-minute, sharp as a tack. Said he might be able to help. So we met here.” He gestures to the bar.

“How many times did you talk to him?” Dani probes, latching on to the information.

“Bunch online.” He shrugs. “A few in person.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Gil interjects, making steady eye contact with the man.

“Couple days ago.”

Music starts blaring in an apparent karaoke night. “Could we please go outside to talk over some more questions?” JT suggests, trying for a second time to get them out the door.

“Stop by my apartment tomorrow morning.” He grabs a pen from the bar and writes on a napkin. “We can talk through whatever you need.”

“How did Mr. Bright’s attitude seem when he left?” Gil shouts over the music.

“Fine — upbeat as a spring.”

“What time?”

“Eight or nine.”

Wembly dismisses them by turning back to his beer.

* * *

Gil kicks a garbage can on the way back to the SUV and stews in the backseat. “Why is beer the most important thing to that man?” JT pops the steering wheel with his fist.

“Ethan, then beer,” Dani corrects, spacing out the window.

“We’re gonna give him a 5AM wakeup call,” Gil instructs, composing himself enough to speak firmly. “See what else you can learn about Jim and Ethan.”

Gil goes quiet again, looking out the window himself.

“We don’t know anything happened,” Dani reminds, but they’re all painfully aware it’s Bright they’re talking about.

“Can you drop me at Jessica’s?” Gil requests. He owes it to her to be up front about the situation.

“Sure.” JT takes a detour for the Upper East Side.

* * *

It’s after 10PM when Gil knocks on the door, but Luisa answers just the same. “Mr. Arroyo,” she greets.

“Please — Gil,” he suggests, accepting her invitation inside.

“Have a seat in the study, I’ll be right back,” Luisa directs to a room down the hall from them, then walks upstairs.

Gil doesn’t listen. Waits folding and unfolding his hands until Jessica appears in a heavy robe and pajamas. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologizes as she comes down the last few stairs.

“You didn’t.” She takes one look at his face and levels, “What did my son do?”

“Let’s go sit.” A solitary room where she could hear the news now seems more appealing.

“ _Tell me_ ,” she demands with a hand on her hip that says she learned how to rip off band-aids a _long_ time ago.

“We can’t find him,” he admits, keeping his eyes trained on her.

Surprise comes in a little dip of her mouth, otherwise composed. “Like Watkins?”

“We don’t know. The team — we’re all looking for him — but the last anyone heard from him was a few days ago.”

“That’s nothing abnormal,” she stretches for explanations, “he’s hid himself in all kinds of places trying to shield himself.”

“His phone was left behind at a bar.” Gil sticks to the facts. Illustrious detail of why he’d gone to the bar in the first place would only add to the panic.

“He’s forgetful!” She throws her hands in the air, pacing a few steps away from him and back.

“Sunshine hadn’t been cared for.”

Jessica stops, her face falling like he’d slapped her with her words. “He’s gone,” she says quietly.

“Jessica.” Gil reaches for her to offer a hug.

She pushes him away. “What are you doing _here_? Go find him!” she commands, her concern seeping into her words.

He leans toward her anyway, wanting to ensure she knows she has support, but doesn’t connect. “We will. You know I couldn’t call you about this.”

Jessica nods, composure working its way back into her face on practiced muscles.

“Call Ainsley, have her come stay with you,” Gil suggests so she has a companion while they wait for an update.

“First thing my kids want,” she scoffs in self-deprecation.

He squeezes her shoulder. “I’d stay if I could.”

She purses her lips. “He’s as arrogant as his father. Keeps doing dumb s- _things_ like he’s invincible.”

That, they can agree on. “Tell me about it.”

“Gonna have to put a shock collar on him,” she rattles like a curse.

“He might like it.”

They both chuckle. “Luisa could get you a coffee to go?” she offers.

“That’s okay — could I ask for a ride back to the precinct, though?”

Jessica’s on the phone as soon as he says ride.

* * *

They take turns sleeping in Gil’s office while learning more about Jim and Ethan. High school sophomores. An analytic and an athlete. One with family money, the other no one.

Jaylin Thomas, a junior. Academic. A victim of The Surgeon’s after vanishing from a spelling tournament. Reported missing, yet foster parents indicated it was a common occurrence.

By Ethan’s attendance record, disappearing was a common occurrence too. After a brief investigation, no one had looked for him except his best friend.

Perhaps more research had gone into some of The Surgeon’s victims. What seemed like opportunistic pickup in public places may have involved a bit more premeditation. Finding people with characteristics that meant they wouldn’t be missed. Maybe he was observing, reading — hunting.

They comb through camera footage outside the bar and corroborate the last day Malcolm was seen, but don’t find an attack. Don’t find anything useful.

“It’s imbrightman,” Dani reads off to JT, scrolling through transcripts of DMs.

“Geeky as fuck — guess we both lose,” JT concedes.

“It’s all benign — Bright asks for a public place to meet up, Wembly suggests the bar. All started a few weeks ago after the post.” Dani scans the materials.

“Ever think he’s trying to get hurt?” JT posits in a wee hours of the morning sort of way.

Dani quickly dismisses him, cutting off the wandering in that direction. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“He could have just _told_ us,” JT points out in frustration with the behavior.

“Trust.”

“He needs to have more of it in us.”

Dani nods, but doesn’t say anything.

Gil’s alarm goes off for 5AM. He finds JT still clicking away at the table and wakes up Dani from a conference room chair — “It’s time to head out.”

* * *

They talk in the doorway, Wembly not really seeming to want to let them in at an early hour. The alcohol’s still heavy on his breath, seeping out of his pores. “Remind us why you were talking to Mr. Bright,” JT starts, comparing his responses to the previous night.

“He was helping me find out what happened to my friend,” Jim explains, his eyes bouncing between the ground, the ceiling, the stairway down the hall from them. “He disappeared back in ’96. I posted asking for any information that would be of assistance, and he answered.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Couple days ago. Mr. Bright had traced some of his movements to within the realm of The Surgeon. Something about a common walking route home from the hospital.” Wembly paused before going any further. “Why do you keep asking me about him?”

“He’s missing,” Gil steps in, watching his reaction — no change.

Wembly considers the information, looking across the three of them.

“Were you alone when you left the bar?” Dani asks, picking up the conversation.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you go when you left the bar?” Dani continues, poking for more detailed information.

“Why are you asking me that? I didn’t do anything,” Wembly’s voice jumps at the implication. His stale breath washes over them in a virulent fog.

JT rests his hand on his hip. “Standard question.”

“Walked around a bit, then came back here.”

“Walked where?” JT probes.

“Down near the warehouses.” His hand points in that direction.

“Thank you. We’ll be back in touch with more questions,” Gil puts an end to the conversation.

They welcome the fresh air when they step back outside.

* * *

Having already looked at the camera footage of Malcolm leaving the bar, they know Wembly is lying. They know the two of them left walking side by side, the folder in one of Malcolm’s hands. Wembly’s shifty behavior has them questioning his other answers. They don’t need Malcolm to tell them something is up. They need more information to confirm their suspicions and target the right questions.

They pull the NYPD camera footage of the warehouses in the Meatpacking District. Walking through it is tedious, all three of them scanning separate footage of the day Malcolm was last seen at the bar, and a team of other officers scrubbing into the next day.

“I think I’ve got him,” Dani announces, sliding back from her screen. “That look like Bright to you?”

Navy suit, hands gesturing while he talked, perfectly coiffed hair — definitely Bright. JT nods. “Question is if the guy next to him is Wembly.”

The man’s portly frame matches, but they can’t see a face. Dani makes a few keystrokes, pulling up the bar footage side by side. The colors are off based on the differences in cameras and lighting, but in view on both videos is a plaid t-shirt and black joggers.

“Bring him in,” Gil announces, already out the door.

JT heads out to the other officers to give them an update on where to narrow their video search, and Dani gets ready to go with JT back to Wembly’s.

* * *

The change of scenery from Wembly’s usual hangouts to an interrogation room has him agitated. His eyes keep bouncing around the room, searching for a way out. _We just want to have a conversation_ , JT and Dani keep telling him. But he seems as caged as their friend they haven’t found.

“Mr. Wembly, what were you wearing the day you met Mr. Bright at the bar a couple nights ago?” JT asks a basic question to get them started.

“Uh — I’m a t-shirt and jeans guy. White t-shirt and jeans, most likely.” He looks at the ceiling, pulling his answers from the sky.

“How certain are you of that?” They haven’t seen him in jeans at all.

“Pretty certain.” This time his eyes go over Dani’s shoulder.

“Mr. Wembly, why are you lying to us?” JT accuses, locking eyes with him.

“I’m not.” He doesn’t look away.

“We have you on camera,” JT indicates, setting down a still shot between them.

Wembly nods at the evidence. “So maybe it was that.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Mr. W-Bright.”

JT tests an assumption. “You failed to mention you were walking with Mr. Whitly near the warehouses.”

Wembly shrugs. “I don’t remember when we parted.”

“Please give us a second — we’ll be right back.” JT looks at the glass to where Gil has been listening on the other side.

* * *

Gil’s on his feet, talking as soon as they step into the observation room, “It’s him.”

“That’s motive. He’s the last person who saw Bright. He confirmed both of their identities on the tape,” JT’s words come out a little faster on the adrenaline.

“I’ll put the call in for a warrant to search his place. We’ll go as soon as it comes in,” Gil indicates.

“This is dumb — why would he waltz right in here if he did it?” JT wonders aloud.

“He’s not a criminal. He’s a hurt family member,” Dani explains from the man’s perspective.

“He’s a criminal now,” Gil affirms, talking to them while he’s waiting on hold.

* * *

The building superintendent lets them into Wembly’s apartment, and they go room to room clearing the space. “He’s not here,” Dani’s voice is haunting, her face falling in despair.

It’s too similar to Watkins, too akin to running through the woods and finding an abandoned cabin. Would they find him bleeding out too? Would they find him at all? She walks away from the two men, retreating out to the kitchen for a moment.

“Guys?” she calls, her voice going up at the end.

She holds up a folder at them when they enter the room, Malcolm’s scrawled lettering on the front. “Could he have given it to Wembly?” JT wonders.

“He’s an arrogant ass with his research — always keeps the originals,” Gil refutes, reaching for the folder.

“So Malcolm was here?” JT questions.

“Or Wembly took them from him,” Dani says, her stomach dropping with the realization that if Wembly had the information he wanted, he had no need for Malcolm.

* * *

Wembly’s argumentative question after question, trying Gil’s patience behind the glass. JT’s unfazed — he just keeps proceeding. Dani sits beside him poised to enter her own interjections.

“When did you discover Mr. Bright’s former identity?” JT asks.

“I always like to know who I’m talking with, so I did some digging. Did you know you all employ a Whitly? How despicable!” His hands slam the table, and the officer in the corner steps forward toward him. Dani holds up her hand, and everyone returns to a neutral position.

“Mr. Wembly, I think you’re in an awful lot of pain. Twenty-four years is a long time to miss someone,” Dani tries to empathize with him.

Wembly nods and turns his head away.

“Did Mr. Bright help bring you some closure?” He was always trying to help any victim more than himself.

“He was helping.” He sighed, looking at the table. “Hadn’t linked all the pieces yet, but promised he would.”

“When did you find out about his relationship to The Surgeon?” Her theory of rage from long held pain flew out the window if Wembly had known for a while.

“That night. His father called. Lit up the screen — Claremont Psychiatric.”

“How did you know?”

“Research. There’s only one guy who’s there.”

“And?”

“He listened to the message — Malcolm, my boy.” He shakes his head. “Don’t tell me I somehow put that together better than you.”

“You didn’t.” JT steps in.

Dani gives him a look that she’s got this, and continues, “Mr. Bright can still help you find him. But first, we need to find him. Can you tell us where he is?”

“Locked up. Where he _should_ be.” His stance is indignant.

“Another person doesn’t need to die,” Dani rationalizes, keeping worry for her friend from wavering her speech.

“Finally figured out how to get back at the man who killed my friend.” He looked off at the far wall, playing with his tongue.

“It was a rash decision — you were under a lot of pressure — “

“I’m _not_ telling you where he is.” He pulls at his wrists as if to cross his arms and ducks his head in silence.

No matter what Dani or JT try, they’re left with nothing. In the observation room, Bright’s stress ball is the only way Gil hasn’t damaged anything.

* * *

It takes hours longer for the team of officers to finish combing enough security camera footage to find Malcolm entering a storage facility. At that point, they’re left with a game of whack-a-mole to figure out which unit, if _any_ might contain him. None of them are registered to Wembly. Gil, JT, and Dani start a walkthrough of the property.

“Shh for a second,” Dani requests, holding her hand back at them.

A repetitive, low thud slowly taps.

They run past a few rows trying to hear where the sound gets louder, but it gets quieter. They turn around, pausing to try to hear it accurately. It’s disorienting trying to gauge where it’s coming from.

JT directs his fingers to the next aisle over and starts walking down the row to the beat of the weak drum. “Bright!” he calls, and the drum stops.

Then it comes back with a vengeance, a pattering that picks up into a pounding riff. 3025 — 3027 — 3029 — definitely 3027. JT wields the bolt cutters and breaks through the locks, opening to reveal — boxes. Towers and _towers_ of boxes.

Maybe it’s 3029. JT cuts again and throws the door to the top, finding Malcolm bound to a shelf inside. When Malcolm’s eyes meet his, the poster tube stops hitting the aluminum wall and drops to the floor.

The stench from his soiled pants is overwhelming in the confined space, but JT just walks toward him, Gil on his heels. What seems to be a whole roll of gorilla tape binds his wrists, thighs, ankles, hips, and shoulders vertically to the side of the shelf. His head droops, no longer having the energy to hold it up now that he knows he’s safe.

It seems he’d been bound and gagged with whatever material was available in the storage locker, even his makeshift drumstick from a stack of poster tubes on the shelf behind him. The cardboard center from the gorilla tape lay abandoned on the floor.

Gil cuts the laptop strap gagging his face and a koosh ball falls out of his mouth, green and blue rubbery spikes skittering across the floor. JT slits the tape on his legs and Gil does the same, meeting in the middle. Malcolm tips forward, but Gil’s there to catch him and slowly lower him to the ground.

Malcolm doesn’t talk, doesn’t move, doesn’t have enough moisture for tears to roll out of his eyes. He breathes, looks at Gil and JT, his eyes conveying he’s grateful to see them again, _alive_.

Dani ushers in the paramedics, and they’re off to getting him checked out in minutes. If only it had been that quick to realize he was missing in the first place.

* * *

Malcolm gets a warm washcloth and a bucket to wash off the sour smell. The nurse offers to help him clean up, but he wants to be left alone. Raw filth is replaced by the overwhelming antiseptic of the hospital. He scrubs and scrubs but still can’t feel himself. He needs his loft, his bird, a place where he can escape his mother freaking out around him and his sister looking on from the chair. The one person he wants around is waiting outside the door for his signal that anyone can be let back in.

He pulls a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt on. They’re both way too big for him, having come out of Gil’s gym bag, but they’re lightyears better than his own that went into the garbage or being forced into any form of hospital gown or scrubs.

“Gil,” his voice carries across the room.

“Hey, kid,” he says upon reentering the room. He takes the used tub of water and dumps it down the sink.

“I’m ready to go.”

Dehydration and concussion are the worst of the damage. They want to keep him for observation, he wants to go home. The compromise ends up being Gil taking him home and not letting him out of his sight. _I will duct tape your ass to the chair_ almost comes out of his mouth, but he chews it back with ice he scoops out of his tea.

The doctor orders him to keep giving Malcolm water until he “pees like a fountain,” and Malcolm turns a lovely shade of rouge. Gil laughs and claps his kid’s back, guiding him out to the car.

* * *

Malcolm gets his phone back. 319 missed calls. Before he can delete the full mailbox of messages, it rings again.

“ _My boy!_ “

He wants to delete him. Undo every trace of evil that man has ever done. As 23 goes to 24 goes to 25, would it even be possible? He can’t bring them back. And answers continue to be questionable for his safety.

But he can’t put down the phone.

“Heard you got into a little bondage! I’m more of a rope man myself, but tape’ll do the deed in a pinch,” Dr. Whitly reads off like he’s considering tradeoffs for sex rather than options in a serial killer’s encyclopedia.

“Dr. Whitly — “

“How is Bedford Correctional’s newest inmate?” he taunts in the cheeriest tone.

“Do not — “

“Tomorrow — don’t be late.”

His phone becomes a projectile through the kitchen, slamming and dropping near the stairs. Gil watches him puddle to the floor, only approaching a long stretch later when his head pops up, knowing he’s not welcome before. “Let’s get you to sleep, kid,” he suggests, lifting him in his arms.

“Not tired.” He curls his head into Gil’s shoulder.

“Uh-huh.”

Gil folds him into bed and helps with his cuffs. He tries to share something that will help him smile. “Your mother wants to put a shock collar on you.”

“Should show her the one in my closet,” he says sleepily.

Gil chuckles. “No, you should not.”

Setup for the night, Gil rubs his shoulder. “Next time you call the team first. No more side projects.”

“Yeah. I got it.” He flips his hand at him as if to say not to worry, but it falls back on the bed.

“Sleep.”

* * *

Malcolm doesn’t want to be at Claremont. He _especially_ doesn’t want Gil with him. But there they are, waiting for Mr. David to open Dr. Whitly’s cell and let them in.

“Malcolm, _my boy!_ “ Dr. Whitly chimes, and with detest adds, “Look what my boomerang dragged in.”

“Dr. — “

“Shall we feast?” His eyes glow like he’ll devour Malcolm, the best thing he’s seen in nearly two weeks.

Malcolm begrudgingly sinks into a seat, Gil left standing behind him. An awkward meal of two eating, one left to observe, as if the situation isn’t already weird enough.

“They _found_ you because of me,” Dr. Whitly wastes no time getting to bragging.

“They took me because of you,” Malcolm returns.

“Less talking, more eating,” Gil warns. “This is _not_ a courtesy.”

Martin stops eating. “He doesn’t know why you’re here.” A smile graces his face. “Shall we tell him about mommy dearest?”

Malcolm glares at him.

“Or shall we shine that spotlight right — about — here.” Dr. Whitly points at Malcolm with his spork.

“You think I didn’t tell him?” Malcolm brandishes more bravely than his tremor reveals.

“That’d mean the good detective is lying.”

“Lieutenant,” Malcolm corrects.

“Deplorable human.” Dr. Whitly spits into the corner of his tray. A slimy addition to the desiccated carrots.

Mr. David tilts his head from his chair and Martin straightens his posture. Gil’s grip tightens on the back of Malcolm’s chair.

“I hear the mashed potatoes are _fabulous_.” Dr. Whitly points at Malcolm’s tray, his cuffs stopping his spork from reaching all the way.

“I can’t — “

“How is Be—“

A scoop of mashed potatoes goes into Malcolm’s mouth. They taste like a cotton wad of lies, drying out all the moisture in his mouth. He coughs it up into a napkin, the texture all wrong, and downs a glass of water to try to chase away the remains. Gil’s presence behind him reminds he needs to tough it out.

“What can you tell me about Ethan Thatcher?” Malcolm asks, watching Dr. Whitly’s reaction.

“No idea who that is.” But his pause was too long for that to be true.

“Last seen walking home from a soccer field. Walked there after a day at Stuyvesant High School,” Malcolm details the facts he’d collected in his folder.

“No clue. But it sounds like he’s missing. Shouldn’t you be out there finding him?” Dr. Whitly practically laughs at him.

“Been missing since ’96.” Malcolm twirls his spork between his fingers. “Jaylin Thomas went there too. You remember him, don’t you?”

“That’s a long time to be out in the cold.” He dodges the other question.

“You’re hiding something,” Malcolm accuses without vehemence, as plain as if he’d said _please, pass the butter_.

“So are you,” Dr. Whitly levels. “Don’t take family dinner and turn it into a show.”

“You do that all on your own.”

The runaround of how conversation on every victim went until they could pin him to the wall and fillet him open in dissection. Malcolm has significantly more research that the NYPD could use to try to connect Ethan’s disappearance to Dr. Whitly, but there wasn’t any proof, and Dr. Whitly sure wouldn’t cooperate. Malcolm leaves with a stomach full of worry and regret.

“See you soon, _my boy_ ,” Martin chimes and smiles as they walk out the door.

Day 1.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
